


Unspoken

by just_j



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_j/pseuds/just_j
Summary: Oikawa has been in love with you since you became a manager for the university’s volleyball team, but keeps it to himself in fear of what his fan club might do to you if they found out.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 245





	1. Chapter 1

The Oikawa fan club is definitely not a fan of you, and you certainly aren’t of _them_. Not because you have a crush on him too but because they’re obnoxious and take the best seats at volleyball games. It also doesn’t help that they outright despise you. They don’t even try to hide it. Snickering in the hallways at school or passing quick remarks whispered amongst them at games. You really aren’t a fan of _that_. You don’t care, you don’t care, you _don’t care_ —you chant to yourself to keep your tongue locked behind your teeth. It isn’t worth your time or the effort.

Not until you hear one of them hiss today at the game, “What is she even doing up here? I thought she’s the _manager_ ,” a scoff. “Guess the team likes Miko better.”

Your fists ball instinctively. You _can’t_ sit down there, as much as you’d like to. If they knew anything deeper about volleyball beyond Oikawa’s killer serve and being obsessed with his ‘pretty hair’ they’d know that you might be a manager but there is a senior manager who outranks you and only one is allowed on the bench down on the court. 

Though you have to admit, sitting up here in the bleachers with the Oikawa ogling brigade in front of you— _the manager_ —fawning over his every move is degrading. You don’t necessarily _have_ to sit directly behind them, but god dammit you want to see the game too and are willing to grin and bear it for the sake of the team. You can’t sit in the normal cheering section crowded with students either since you arrive late and would have to sit at the back of the stands. So, this is the better of two options, even if today the fan club is being particularly petty.

“Or maybe she’s just a wannabe,” another snickers, loud enough that you _know_ she is intending you to hear it.

That pushes you over the edge, making you abruptly stand up. You’re wearing a university volleyball club jacket for fucks sake! Are they really so shallow as to start slinging rumors like that around? They jolt at your sudden movement, glaring back at you, clearly with no intention of apologizing. They so obviously just want you to leave.

You want to watch the game, support the boys you watch work so hard and work hard for yourself, but you don’t want to be around for this bullshit. You know shouldn’t care, but you _do_ , and it fucking ruins the game for you.

Instead of giving them some mean remark like you’re itching to throw at them, you just turn on a heel and go. You stride up the steps and towards the exit right as you hear the crowd gear up for Oikawa’s serve. You stop once you reach the doorway, fists clenched and trembling with anger, furious at yourself for letting them get under your skin. Exactly like they wanted to. You should have stayed as a silent ‘fuck you’ to them, but you can’t stomach going back either. Not like they even care anyways, probably too wrapped up in Oikawa’s serve. Now a sigh escapes you; forcing your hands to unfurl and stretch the ache that formed from how tightly you had them clenched.

You need to take a breath and move on. You have nothing to prove to them, all the matters is that _you_ know where you stand. It also makes you feel better that the team actually knows you, they can pretend it isn’t true all they want but that doesn’t change that you get to spend time with the team, and inevitably, Oikawa. A fact they _loathe_.

You end up lingering in the hallway near the entrance to the gym, waiting for the game to finish. Usually you can be a part of the between game meetings if you want to, sometimes you can’t get down there fast enough but sitting here in the hallway, you’ll make it today. While you wait, you slide down the wall to sit, leaning against it and pulling your legs close to rest your chin on.

You like to think that you have tough skin and their words can’t hurt you, but they do. And while you may not put the same amount of blood, sweat, and tears the boys do into the sport—you put in your fair share for them, and it’s hard to be met with scoffs and sideways glances purely because of jealousy. You’re appreciated enough by those who _matter_ , so why are you so bothered by the fan club? Shaking your head at the fleeting thought that it has anything to do with Oikawa, you convince yourself it’s just annoyance that you can’t enjoy games like you’d like to.

Interrupting your thoughts, the whistle blows to signal the end of the game and you perk your head up. You’re grateful for the distraction, not really wanting to delve deeper into your thoughts about Oikawa, and peek into the gym. Miko notices your head in the doorway and waves you in to join the huddle.

 _Ha, take that fan club_. _Wannabe my ass._

Miko’s movement catches Oikawa’s attention. He looks to where her attention is drawn and watches you beam before throwing the door wide and joining the huddle by Miko’s side. He wonders what you were doing _waiting_ by the door, normally you wait until the last possible moment before bolting from your seat in the bleachers to join the huddle. You never want to miss a single second of the game, which he finds rather endearing. And he can’t remember the last time you skipped out on a game early.

He stares at you, trying to get your attention, but you’re fixated on the coach, no doubt trying to soak up as much information as possible. It makes his mouth curve ever so slightly at how eagerly you listen during these huddles. When you do briefly slide your gaze over to him, he gives you a questioning look to which you just shake your head at and point discretely at the coach.

Ah. Your way of saying, ‘shut up and listen’.

He supposes he likes that about you. Your bluntness.

So, with an eyeroll, he fixes his eyes on the coach, fully intending on pestering you later about it. He tries to grab you before the next game, but you hurry away as soon as the whistle is blown, and his fingers grasp empty air.

The team wins the next set, winning the match without going to the 3rd set. As customary, he lines up with the team to thank the spectators and Oikawa gets the chance to pick you out in the crowd. He spots you off to the side, and he’s noted since meeting you that you don’t sit with the cheering crowd, but rather on your own. It’s never too hard to find you, your face split in two by a smile as you clap for them. It’s then that he notices who is sitting directly in front of you.

He fights the urge to frown. He likes to think he’s a polite guy, having always given attention to his so called ‘fan club’. He got used to it in high school, the constant barrage of placating a group of fans, but had been secretly looking forward to hopefully leaving it behind. Only to have a new one re-emerge within the first few months of school. The other guys on the team weren’t too keen about him for a while after that. It took him _forever_ to convince them to tolerate him again.

And he hates that they give you trouble. Ever since they discovered you interact with him outside of school, it seems they deemed you an enemy. He tries to stay away from you during regular school hours, keeping it limited to volleyball only, but lately the two have started bleeding together. He simply can’t help himself, however selfish that may be. Gathering his things, he wonders if they’re the cause for your weird behavior earlier.

He glances at you helping Miko put away the chairs, a tight feeling constricting his chest. God—if he ever told you how he actually feels about you, what would his fan club do then? How miserable would they make you? But damn him to hell, he’s selfish, and it doesn’t stop him from striding over to you cooing your name.

Without hesitation you reply, “Oikawa- _san~_ ,” in the same sing-song voice he uses for you. You don’t even bother to look over your shoulder at him, continuing your task.

“What was with the little peeping tom imitation earlier?”

You’re glad to be facing away from him, your skin prickling with the thought of having to explain to him that his fan club was pissing you off. Surely earning yourself a more prying follow-up question that you definitely do _not_ want to answer. So instead you shrug, brushing off his question, “You guys were so far ahead, and I was sure your serves would end it, so I figured I’d actually be a part of the entire huddle.”

He squints, finding that to be rather out of character for you. “You missed my serves though!” He pouts, deciding it’s better for him to let you off the hook than continue to pry. He doesn’t think you’d tell him anyways, no matter how much he pesters you.

“Oh, big baby. I missed what? Two?”

“What if they were my best yet!” He protests, leaning around you so you can see his impressive pout. It delights him that he elicits a smile from you, peering at him from the corner of your eye, clearly finding his antics amusing. “Guess you’ll have to help me with serving practice to make up for it.”

You stick your tongue out at him, which he hates to admit he watches _very_ closely as you answer, “Fine.” Though, truthfully, he’s not really pulling your leg too much. You like helping him practice.

He can’t help how his mouth turns downward into a frown as another member of the team, a bold freshman, butts into the conversation. “Need any help?”

Though he does find immense delight at the way your face falls to a neutral expression, giving him a curt, “I’m alright, thank you.” You don’t even turn to him, instead tilting your head to look at Oikawa continuing, “Oikawa-san is more than enough help here. Why don’t you see if they need help putting away the net?”

The freshman slinks away and Oikawa has to physically restrain himself from doing a victory lap as you shove a chair into his hands grumbling to yourself. The muttering continues as you move to put away more chairs, loud enough that he catches you say, “Is he _ever_ going to get the hint?”

“What?”

You almost drop the chair you’re holding, turning wide-eyed at Oikawa, not realizing you’d been talking out loud to yourself. “It’s nothing.”

He frowns. “Is he bothering you?”

God he’s talking _so_ loudly, making you nervous that the underclassman might hear him. “Can you talk _any_ louder?” You hiss. Oikawa’s expression doesn’t change, however, and you groan really not wanting to get into this right now. “He’s been at it for a couple weeks now,” you say, trying to play off the situation as best you can. You’ve never had someone as persistent in pursuing you as he is, or someone as oblivious to your subtle rejections either.

You vaguely wonder if this is how Oikawa feels all the time with his fan club.

“Wanna pretend to date for a while?” He suggests harmlessly in your opinion, but _very_ selfishly in his. And while he knows he isn’t joking in the slightest—you certainly think he is and bark out a laugh at the idea of fake dating him to get the underclassman off your back. “What?” He pouts. “Is it so crazy of an idea?”

You’re laughing even harder now, enough that people are beginning to look your way, so you swallow you remaining laughter and wipe your eyes dramatically. “It just don’t want to be murdered in the dead of night by your fan club, that’s all.”

You go back to collapsing chairs and don’t notice Oikawa stiffen. He doesn’t like being reminded that his fan club will literally rip apart any girl he is even remotely interested in. And he isn’t just _interested_ in you. He likes you. A lot.

Clearly not thinking anything of this conversation, you say over your shoulder, “What are all those muscles for if you’re not going to carry more chairs than me?” He blinks back to reality and makes a show of picking up way more chairs than you _and_ putting them away faster too. That only earns him a scowl in response, but he knows it’s only for show.

* * *

“Oh, _pleeeeeease_?” Oikawa almost gets on his knees begging you. Practice is done but he wants to stay late and hammer in more serves before the night is over. And sue him if he thinks it’s way more enjoyable if you stay to help him. “You promised last week!” You groan, scrunching your eyes tight, not wanting to look at his stupidly adorable pouting face that usually breaks you. It doesn’t help that you can _feel_ he is standing very close to you. “You’re going to have to open your eyes sometime.”

“Nope, I’ll walk all the way home like this.”

He pleads your name again. “You’re going to miss the rare sight of Oikawa Tooru on his knees for you!”

You don’t budge. “Nice try.”

“I’m serious!” Now he really _does_ get on his knees, dramatically putting his hands together to beg you. “This is a once in a lifetime chance!”

He keeps it to himself that you could definitely get him on his knees for _many_ different reasons.

He’s sure that he’s broken you when you groan loudly and peek an eye open at him. Upon seeing that he _is_ being serious, both of your eyes widen, and you have the audacity to start giggling at him. “I should take a picture.”

That makes him scramble to his feet, sticking his tongue out at you. “You better not.” It just makes you grin and his heart soars at the sight. He can’t help that your smile makes his stomach do somersaults. He takes you by the arm and drags you further into the gym before jogging over to the other side of the court and grabbing a ball from the cart.

He loves that he doesn’t have to tell you what to do. You’re already digging through your bag to find objects to place around the opposite side of the net for him to aim for. He notices that you’ve placed some of them _very_ meanly—some sitting just barely on the outside line, others in spots that he has a record of having trouble hitting. And while it makes his chest swell with pride you even notice his performance, the scowl across his face betrays his annoyance that you aren’t making this easy.

If you’re going to help him—he’s going to have to work for it.

And _hell,_ if that doesn’t drive him wild.

“Those good?” You ask, stepping off to the side, a smug smirk splayed across your lips.

You know _exactly_ what you’re doing.

He levels a look at you that you return with a sickeningly sweet yet utterly terrifying smile. “You’re going to have to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

Your smile transforms into something that makes his stupid fucking shorts tighten, holding his gaze steadily as you challenge, “We’ll see.” Then you tear your eyes from his and he feels like you’ve ripped his chest out with it and like he can barely get enough air into his lungs. He knows the challenge is to drive him to do better, to perform the best of his ability, but _damn_ —he’ll give 110% for the rest of his life if you ask him to.

You will never admit how much you love watching Oikawa play volleyball. Watching him shift from his teasing, easy-going smile, to this intensely serious and calculating gaze that while foreign to you—is also so strangely familiar. You feel lucky to be able to watch him up close, someone who has honed their craft, yet is ever looking to be better. When it comes down to it, you truly admire Oikawa and want to be there to watch him grow and see where he goes. Because to you, the sky’s the limit for him.

Where the hell are _those_ thoughts coming from?

The sound of a volleyball slamming onto the court, sending the notebook you placed on the line skittering across the floor, startles you. “Hey! Pay attention!” Oikawa scolds. You quickly apologize, knowing full well how much a stray volleyball can hurt. “And make sure you’re watching! I’m going to hit every single one of those first try.”

You nod, a bit blankly, still reeling from the thoughts tumbling through your head. He tosses another ball up, his powerful thighs straining as he thrusts his body upwards, hand meeting the ball at the perfect point—the sound of his hand cracking against it almost as loud as the sound that reverberates around the gym when it connects with the floor. It all happens in the blink of an eye, but you feel like you’re watching it in slow motion until his feet touch the floor and you’re jolted back to reality.

God, what the fuck is going on with you tonight?

Oikawa isn’t blind. He knows you’re watching him. And it sends such a thrill down his spine he doesn’t know what to do with himself besides channel as his energy into his serves. Otherwise he’s going to do something _very_ stupid tonight.

You’re uncannily quiet for the remainder of the night. Just watching him serve over and over again, and when he’s finished, helping him pick up the balls and set up the targets so he can start again. He is desperate to know what’s going through your head, but he lets you stew, just as interested in what conclusion you might be coming to on your own.

It’s not his fault that his imagination runs absolutely fucking wild that night. He can’t sleep, theorizing what changed today—if anything did. What were you thinking about as you watched him so intently? What flipped the switch? Are you thinking about him right now, lying awake in bed like he is? It torments him even in his dreams.

* * *

He does keep you awake that night. You can’t get the image of him out of your head. His voice either. It’s infuriating. You try to convince yourself he’s just a friend. That all those late nights in the gym, all the times he’s walked you home, all the bus rides you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder, are harmless. He hasn’t wormed his way into your heart, he hasn’t made you fall in love with him slowly and quietly and its only now hitting you like a tidal wave—has he?

Fuck. _Has he?_

You’re grateful your roommates’ room is down the hall, giving you the freedom to scream into your pillow.

_Are you a fucking Oikawa fan girl now?_

You don’t know the difference between you and them is that he’s been in love with you a lot longer than you can even imagine.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oikawa-san!! Oikawa-san!”

He stops in his tracks on his way into the gym. It _was_ his mistake walking alone from class to practice, usually commandeering a teammate to act as a buffer and an escape route if needed. Plastering his practiced smile on his face, he turns to find the most tenacious members of his fan club trailing him and waving happily.

He indulges them, asking them about their days, what they’re up to later—the usual small talk shit he feels he might accidentally start saying in his sleep. It isn’t until he notices you striding up the sidewalk towards the gym does his heart punch up into his throat and his hands feel clammy. How is it that he can placate a gaggle of girls at the drop of a hat but when it comes to you, he sometimes feels like his tongue is twisting into knots?

You at least spare him a pitiful glance as you pass him, but don’t have the courage to help him out at the expense of incurring the wrath of the fan club. He doesn’t blame you. Though what makes his blood _boil_ is the look they give you as you pass, like you aren’t worth their time and definitely not _his_.

But he’d spend every minute of his day with you if he could.

The thought hits him like a truck. What the fuck is he doing standing around here when you’re _right_ there?

Excusing himself abruptly from the conversation, with a half-assed, “I need to get to practice ladies!” He jogs to catch up with you, unable to ignore the scowls pointed in your direction because of course they blame you. He supposes he blames you for stealing his heart too, but he can’t complain too much with the smirk you give him once he catches up.

“I didn’t think you had the balls for that Oikawa.”

He laughs—his _real_ laugh, knowing the fan club is still watching, but unable to bring himself to care. “They must be huge then,” He leans in, shielding his mouth on one side to hiss, “because they are terrifying.”

You look at him with raised eyebrows for a moment. “I take it back.” He frowns animatedly. “I think they’re totally shriveled up right now.”

“Hey!”

You just laugh, reaching the gym and peeling your shoes off to change them before looking over your shoulder with a smile on your face that _destroys_ him, and beckon him to follow you. You have no clue just how wrapped around your finger he is.

* * *

Recently, the fan club has gotten more vicious than they’ve ever been before. You’re usually able to ignore it, brushing it off and not letting it get under your skin. But with the increased tenacity of the club, it’s almost impossible to go a single day without hearing _something_ from them. Before there were stretches of time that were peaceful and you usually only had to deal with it around game times.

And even if it damns you further, you can’t help your eyes scanning the dining hall for a friendly face one afternoon and locking onto Oikawa sitting with a couple other team members. Normally, you wouldn’t mind sitting alone but whenever you’re alone is when it’s the worst. And when you did your scan, the club is to nobody’s surprise sitting a few tables away from Oikawa.

He doesn’t notice you until you’ve approached the table, his eyes lighting up until he sees your expression. It immediately sets him on high alert, wondering just what the hell is wrong to make you look like that. Timid and nearly caving in on yourself, he has to resist his urge to leap out of his chair and smother you in his arms.

“Can I sit with you guys?”

He doesn’t even bother asking the others, knowing they won’t mind. He pats the empty chair next to him. “Of course!”

You give him a feeble smile before depositing your backpack on the chair and heading off to get yourself some food. One of the guys at the table frowns, obviously gleaning something is wrong just as Oikawa has. “What’s up with her?”

Oikawa racks his brain for anything that might have made you act like that, but he hasn’t seen you since yesterday’s practice and you were completely normal then. He scrunches his brows, and it’s then that he sees past his teammates shoulder and notices his fan club seated a few tables away. And they are _deep_ in conversation.

He watches in horror as they all get up and head in your direction. It’s like his world slows to a snail’s pace as his eyes trail them, watching them huddle near the ice cream machine—directly next to you. His eyes widen, noticing how your body stiffens and your fingers grip your tray tightly while the fan club whispers amongst themselves. Then they move off, back to their table, looking rather smug.

He doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out what just happened and why you’d asked to sit with them.

Turning back to his table, he realizes everyone has just witnessed the same thing he did. And nobody looks very pleased. Oikawa presses his lips into a firm line before hissing, “It’s not like I _tell_ them to do that!” He groans, tipping his head back and hating himself just a little bit.

When you return, you’re even stiffer than before. You slide into the chair, give them all a weak smile, and then pull out your phone to start quietly scrolling. In all honesty, if you try to talk to them right now you might burst into tears and you _definitely_ don’t feel like explaining yourself to them. Nor do you feel like embarrassing yourself by crying in the middle of the dining hall with the fan club 3 fucking tables away. So instead, you stuff you mouth full of rice and shove the tightness growing in your throat down with it.

Halfway through your meal, the rest of the team excuses themselves, leaving just you and Oikawa at the table. You don’t know if this is worse or better.

But when you sneak a peek at him from the corner of your eye and see his deep chocolate eyes filled with worry staring at you—you decide on _worse_.

“I’m fine,” you say quietly, not bothering to pause eating.

He grits his teeth, having expected that answer from you. “What did they say?”

You almost choke on your rice.

_He saw?_

Now you sigh, putting down your chopsticks to look at him. “It doesn’t matter.” His frown only deepens, clearly not believing you. Without your permission, your heart beats thunderously against your chest with his full attention on you. You’ve never seen Oikawa look so serious outside of volleyball before and it’s directed at _you_ and you have no idea what to do with yourself. “It’s just gotten worse lately,” you whisper.

“ _Worse?”_

His voice raises enough that you have to shush him. Once he calms down a bit you continue, “They just don’t like me because I’m a manager for the volleyball team, okay? It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

The lie feels slimy on your tongue.

They’re slowly breaking you—and you know it. But that doesn’t mean Oikawa needs to know about it.

“They don’t do that to Miko!” He hisses, leaning in close and hoping nobody around you can hear your conversation.

You sigh, unsure if he’s being dense or he just doesn’t believe you. “Yeah, well, Miko doesn’t stay late to help you practice or study with you in the library or I don’t know—be your friend? They don’t like the idea of anyone being close to you who isn’t them!”

You don’t really know why you’re angry, but does he really not see? Shoving out your chair, you gather your things, snatch your tray and leave him sitting dumbfounded in his chair. The snickering of the fan club is mere din in your ears compared to the blood rushing through them.

Why do you _think_ they target you—Oikawa? Could it be the small smiles reserved just for you that he gives you, the late nights spent together, the fact you spend so much time with him and seem to make him happy? Through your anger, you can’t see what all of those things add up to. Instead, you stride out of the dining hall intent on returning to your apartment and screaming into your pillow.

It’s not that he doesn’t see. He knows anyone who gets close to him becomes a target. Girls have broken up with him in the past over it. But you never…brought it up. You never talked about it and he figured it either didn’t bother you, or he’d foolishly hoped maybe you’d slipped under their radar. Seems he’d been wrong in _so_ many ways.

* * *

A few days pass after your outburst in the dining hall. You act normally at practice, though ignore him more than usual, and he at least has the mind to leave you alone and not ask you to stay late with him. Instead resorting to practicing late alone and it becoming extremely clear to him how much he misses you.

Until one day you’re absent. It’s so jarring to him he can barely focus during practice, getting knocked on the head a few times with a volleyball by his teammates. You never miss practice, and when you do you always let someone know well in advance. This time, all he gets for an explanation is a vague ‘she wasn’t feeling well’ from Miko.

He thinks that’s bullshit. Knowing full well you’d be here even if you were sick as a dog and they’d all have to force you to go home and rest. It’s happened on several occasions.

So, when practice wraps up, he is the first out the door, garnering strange looks from the others. He sprints across campus to your apartment building just on the outskirts of the school, takes the stairs by twos and arrives at your door panting with thighs burning from his mad dash over here. He’s able to compose himself a moment before knocking on the door.

Your roommate answers, her eyes widening at the sight of Oikawa Tooru standing on the other side of the door. For a brief moment he thinks she’s going to shut the door in his face, judging by her displeased expression. He asks if you’re here.

Her expression doesn’t change. “Yeah, but why the fuck should I let you in?”

That only confirms that something is _very_ wrong. He stands there, trying desperately to form the words to convince her to let him in to see you. All he’s able to choke out is a quiet, “Please.”

He has no idea how that convinces her. Maybe he looks so pathetic she feels bad for him, but either way she stands to the side and wordlessly beckons him inside. He follows her down the hallway, stopping at your door as she continues down to the end reaching her door. Before she shuts it, she glares at him, getting her point across without saying a word.

_She_ will _hurt him if he hurts you._

He swallows nervously. This entire interaction has only made his worry shoot through the roof and he has no idea what he’s walking into as he opens the door.

Your room is dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window and from the hallway behind him, illuminating your frame curled under your covers with your back to the door. “Akane I told you I don’t want to talk about it.” Your voice is so fragile his heart splits in two.

His throat closes up. “It’s—it’s not Akane.”

Your head whips up at the sound of Oikawa’s voice. You turn, finding him standing in the doorway, his face so shadowed by the light of the hallway behind him that you can’t read his expression. You wish you had the energy to throw a pillow at him and tell him to get out, that you don’t want to see anyone right now. You don’t want anyone to see you like this—to see how some stupid fucking words broke you.

Instead, your lips tremble and the tears you’ve been holding back for hours pool in your eyes. And while you can’t see him, he can see you clear as day, and his heart splinters watching you try to keep your tears at bay. He’s frozen for a moment, but when your tears spill over onto your cheeks, he moves on instinct.

He crouches at the side of your bed, taking your hands into his, rubbing the tops of them with his thumbs while tears continue to roll down your face. His hands are warm, the familiarity of his callouses startling you yet comforting all the same. Each quiet sob of yours makes his chest crumble in on itself, all while his mind running through every situation that made you like this.

“What’s wrong?” He asks tentatively.

You hate the sob that shakes you. How _dare_ his voice be so soft and soothing?

“It—it’s stupid,” you manage to squeak out.

His hands move from yours to cup your face and start wiping your tears away. It only makes you cry harder. Why does he have to be so wonderful yet so unattainable?

He frowns, not a fan of you undermining your feelings like that. He moves to climb into your bed, which you surprisingly let him, and gathers you into his lap. He wraps his arms around you, letting you press your face into his chest, the end of your tears nowhere in sight. “It’s not stupid if it’s made you cry,” he murmurs into your hair, one of his hands rubbing tender circles on your back.

_Nothing_ he is doing is helping to stop your crying. It’s only making you sob harder, not wanting to admit that his fan club finally broke you.

He says your name quietly. “Please tell me.”

“No.”

That makes him sigh deeply, your head rising and falling against his chest. “Your stubbornness is impressive but you’re the one who’s going to give in today.” That at least earns him a scoff from you. “And I’m not going to leave until you tell me.”

“I don’t want you to leave, I just don’t want to tell you,” you say so plainly his brain short circuits for a second. He thought maybe your sobs have subsided but, they start anew, and your fingers grip his shirt like you’re trying to pull yourself even closer to him. You can’t deny how warm and comforting he is, nor how much you didn’t realize the only person you really wanted to see was _him_. “It was awful today. They wouldn’t leave me alone.”

His entire body stiffens. Through your sobs, you manage to explain, “It was so _dumb_ , but I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“What did they say?” He says his voice dipping into a deadly tone.

You bury your face into his chest, your voice muffled as you say, “That the only reason you all keep me as a manager for the team is because you can’t have somebody pretty to distract you.”

His blood runs cold. Gripping your shoulders, he yanks you away from his chest so forcefully you gasp in surprise. He holds you an arm’s length away from him, his eyes boring into your soul. You’re speechless, waiting for him to say whatever is on his mind.

But what you aren’t expecting is for him to say with all the seriousness in the world, “You are the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on.” And it’s so shocking that your natural reaction is to burst out laughing in the ugly ‘what the fuck is happening?’ sort of way. “Why are you laughing?!”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I am!” He shakes you as if that’s going to make you believe him.

Now you’re stunned. Enough that your tears dry up and you just look at him. He watches you with bated breath, the wheels clearly turning in your head as you start to put the pieces together. “You—you’re…”

God, he’s over this. “Can’t you see that I’m fucking in love with you dammit!” He shouts, loud enough that he’s certain your roommate hears it too.

You brain grinds to a halt and the only word you’re able to say is, “Oh.”

You’ve slowly been coming to the realization that the same is true for you. And hearing him say it only makes you that much surer of it. He looks like he’s about to combust that all you can say is _‘oh’_ , and when he’s about to open his mouth to get you to say _anything_ else, you cup his face with your hands making his mouth snap shut.

The moment your lips meet his, he’s done for. Kissing him his terrifying, knowing you’ve crossed a line that once you’ve crossed you can’t go back—but as one of his hands slides to the back of your head and the other to your waist to press you flush against him it simply starts to feel _right_. Like your hands were meant to caress his cheeks before moving to tangle in his hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting a deep rumble of pleasure from him that you _swear_ you haven’t heard in your dreams before.

He kisses you like he’s starved, like he’s thought about this moment before and knows exactly what to do with his mouth, his hands, his _tongue_. Holy fuck—he’s intoxicating, making all thoughts of his fan club and any of your insecurities disappear into meaningless nothing. He’s telling you right here, without words, just what he thinks about you.

And it’s that you’re perfect in every conceivable way to him.

“Oikawa,” you breathe between kisses.

“Mmh.”

It’s a minute before you have the chance to speak again. “The door is still open.”

That makes him laugh. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I don’t care right now.”

“I do!” You push away from him, somehow escaping his attempt to grab you and pull you back to the bed. Once you’ve shut the door, you hop back into the bed next to him, but he protests with a stellar pout and drags you into his lap so he can pepper kisses all over your face and neck. “Oikawa, please!” You try to scramble away from him, but he holds you tight, refusing to let you go.

“Not until you promise not to believe a word they say anymore,” he mumbles against your neck.

You sigh, taking his head into your hands and forcing him to stop his ministrations for a second to look him straight in the eyes. “It’s hard.”

His eyes soften. “I know. But I need you to know none of it is true—none of it. And you’ve owned me, heart and soul, since the first day you stepped into the gym.” It’s so unbearably cheesy that you try to cover your face with your hands, but he restrains you, his large hands wrapped around your wrists and he peers to look at you. “Promise?”

“You’re annoying,” you say, desperately trying to normalize this situation.

He pouts. “That’s not nice—,”

“I promise.” You cut him off. “Now you promise me that you won’t let them kill me in my sleep.”

He barks out a laugh at that, relishing in the sound of yours joining it. Then he presses his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning your face as he murmurs, “Yes, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is smut, be warned heathens


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut ahead, oikawa is king, thats it, carry on :)

His lips press firmly to yours again, hands drifting to find your waist and position your legs on either side of his. His kisses travel from your lips, across your jaw and down your neck before making their way back, drawing soft sighs from you that he can’t get enough of. And when his lips find yours again, his tongue slips into your mouth and you nearly lose your mind.

“I want to show you just how much I meant what I said,” he says, a mere whisper against your neck, his tone dark and promising and makes your entire body tingle.

“Okay,” you’re able to reply, even though he’s making your thoughts muddier by the second.

His hands grip your ass, kneading the flesh of it in his fingers as he pushes your hips forward to grind against him and you become _very_ aware of his arousal pressing against his sweatpants. He continues that motion, squeezing and spreading your ass in time with his small thrusts forward, all while he’s making you dizzy with his mouth.

He can barely get enough of you; he’s dreamt about this for months and holy _hell_ —he will give everything for this not to stop. As long as he can keep eliciting those sounds from you, keep your fingers tangled in his dark hair, your mouth on his—he can die happy.

“Tooru,” you plead breathily in a way that sets his skin on _fire_.

“ _Fuck_.” He bites gently at your shoulder to keep his composure at your voice saying his name in _that_ tone. Something he’s only heard in his wildest daydreams up until now. His hands slide from your ass up to your back, gripping the hem of your shirt on his way and helps you out of it. Once you’re free of your shirt, he has free reign to kiss and nip your chest, worming his fingers underneath your bra to find your nipples hard and perky for him.

He rolls them deftly between his thumb and forefinger, drowning in the face you make as you watch him beneath lidded eyes. You’re gripping his shoulders now, grinding yourself down onto his clothed cock to get any sort of friction against the ache growing between your legs.

“I should have known you’d be a tease,” you hiss after he tosses your bra aside and latches his mouth onto one nipple while continuing his ministrations on the other. All he does is smirk against you, swirling his tongue around the pert bud before taking the entire thing into his mouth and letting it go with an audible pop.

Before turning his attention to the neglected nipple, he chuckles deep in his throat, making the situation between your legs even worse. “You have no idea.” Then he closes his eyes and sweeps his tongue across your breast, sending goosebumps skittering along your skin and your own eyes rolling to the back of your head as his free hand helps you grind against him again.

He wonders how long he’s going to get away with teasing you.

The answer to that is—not long.

Your grip tightens in his hair, yanking hard enough to pull him off your nipple and to make his cock twitch in his pants which he’s sure you don’t miss. “Do something _else_ with that tongue,” you plead with no shame. He’s teased you long enough—though there’s a part of you that knows he’s going to continue taking his sweet time with you regardless of how much you beg him.

“Something else,” he muses, though obliges and begins making his way lower, his warm lips ghosting across your stomach and reaching the waistband of your shorts. Fingers latching onto them and slowly dragging them off your hips, agonizingly slowly, repeating, “Something _else_.” You’re on the brink of kicking him when he trails kisses up your bare legs now, placing his hands firmly on your hips, taking in the sight of you—chest heaving, eyes watching his every move, your own hands gripping the sheets underneath you to keep yourself grounded.

But he fully intends on worshipping you the entire night, no matter how much you protest.

Pressing a deceptively chaste kiss to your inner thigh, he moves to the apex of your thighs and has to grip your hips to keep himself from destroying you right then and there with the look you’re giving him. He peers at you from beneath his thick lashes, not breaking eye contact as he pulls your underwear to the side and slips his tongue between your folds.

The moan that fills the air makes him _painfully_ aware of how hard he is. You throw your head back, baring the column of your neck to him and if he wasn’t so preoccupied between your legs, he’d definitely make quick work of marking up your skin.

He moans sinfully into you when your fingers find his hair, burying his face even harder into you, the sensation alone sending you through the roof. But when his tongue laps up against your clit, your head snaps down to find him watching you so intensely that you can’t hold his gaze for long. You can barely see straight through the pleasure coursing over you in waves as Oikawa—Oikawa _fucking_ Tooru—eats you out like he hasn’t eaten in days.

Never in your life did you imagine you’d have him between your legs. 

Aiming to make you keep moaning for him, he slips a finger into you, but it seems you barely notice. So, he adds another digit, and gets the response he was looking for.

“Holy— _fuck_!” Your fingers grip his hair even tighter and he fucking _loves_ it. Could watch you fall apart from his tongue and fingers for hours, making you scream his name and his name only. He fucks you slow and deep with his fingers, all while continuing to make you see stars with his tongue on your clit.

You’re barreling straight for an orgasm and before you even have the chance to warn him, it crashes into you. Your legs instinctively clamp around his head, body twitching from the sheer force of the pleasure rolling through you—he doesn’t mind in the slightest, content to keep fucking you through your orgasm, lapping at your clit softly to help you ride it out.

At some point, you become too sensitive and shove his head away from you only to moan lewdly as he extracts his fingers from you and sticks them into his mouth to clean them. The sight alone making your insides tighten. You notice he’s still completely clothed which is utterly unfair, in your opinion. And when your gaze rakes down his form, there is no _not_ noticing the bulge protruding from his pants—nor the small wet spot at the tip of it.

When your eyes meet his again, he’s grinning, thoroughly enjoying you ogling him. You sit up, your face level with his waist now and let your hands trail underneath his shirt and doing the exact same thing he did to you. Once his shirt is on the floor, it’s embarrassing how slick you feel yourself become just at the sight of him.

Years of volleyball have served him well and you are by no means shy to let your fingers and mouth explore the defined muscles of his chest.

“Having fun?” He smirks.

“Very.”

Your fingers dip beneath his waistband, intending on giving him a taste of his own medicine, but his fingers wrap around your wrists stopping you. You glance up at him and he has to suck in a breath steeling his resolve. As much as he wants you on your knees, his dick sitting heavy on your tongue, tonight he wants it to be all about _you_.

You cock your head, saying, “At least let me take them _off_.”

He laughs softly at that and let’s go of your wrists. You slide his pants down to his knees, purposefully grazing your hand against him, doing the same thing when you repeat with his boxers.

Honestly, at this point, you wouldn’t fucking care what his dick looks like but really—it isn’t fair. He’s built like a Greek god, all lean muscle with a perfect fucking cock dripping pre-cum sitting between two muscular thighs. How dare he have a body like this. Oikawa just watches you carefully, startled when you say, “Fuck you.”

He’s quick to regain his composure though, grinning as he leans down to murmur in your ear, “No, I’m going to fuck you.” He’s glad you don’t flat out laugh at him, instead an involuntary shiver snaking down your spine at his suggestion.

Pushing him by his shoulders to lay on his back, you hover over him, your wet heat just above his tip making his thoughts a little cloudy. It takes a lot of his willpower not to just thrust up into you, but as you sink slowly on his cock, he quickly doesn’t fucking _care_ —you can do whatever you fucking want. He can feel every inch of you spreading around him, taking his entire length with ease until you’re seated fully on him.

You place your hands on his chest steadying yourself, panting heavily, eyes closed and mouth agape in pure ecstasy. Both of you groan embarrassingly loudly when you lift yourself off him only to drop back on him, burying him to the hilt in your tight heat.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” he grits out, his fingers grappling at your hips helping you ride him. He lets you go at your own pace, warming yourself up to him, helping you along by showering you with lewd praises. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Riding my cock like such a good girl.”

You can’t even form words, mind too muddled with the immense pleasure radiating from your core. He’s so goddamn perfect, stuffing you with his cock so well that you’ve never felt so fucking good in your entire life. His strong grip on your hips, slamming you down onto him with each thrust, shoving him deeper each time, is enough to pull gasps from your lips that you don’t bother to stifle. You’re so filled with lust and pleasure that you start babbling nonsense. You might’ve been mortified about it had he not reciprocated with nonsense of his own.

“Holy shit—Tooru, I—I can’t,” the words tumble out of you between various sighs and moans as he continues to plunge into you. You feel like a goddamn _goddess_ seated atop him, his eyes watching your every move, enjoying watching you as much as anything else.

“Come here,” he commands, tugging you so your chest is flush with his, your face buried in his neck, allowing him to pound into you with reckless abandon. The new position lets the tip of his cock brush against a spot inside you that makes you see stars for a second. He notices your breathing change and that you’re shoving yourself onto him chasing that sensation again. Gripping you tight around the shoulders, he angles his hips and sinks into you, switching to long and deep thrusts.

“Right there, baby?” He coos when your nails dig into his shoulders so tightly that he’s sure you’re going to leave marks. And _fuck_ —he wants you to.

“Yes, oh—fuck, Tooru, right there,” you babble mindlessly, hot breath pressed against his neck and letting him do all the work.

He knows it’s coming. He can feel your entire body tense, immobilized by your sudden impending orgasm, so he continues his pace—pulling almost entirely out of you before shoving himself in. His own unashamed sighs beginning to fill the air, accompanied by a breathless, “You feel so good…so fucking wet and tight for me.” All he gets in response is a moan stifled against his skin and your fingers clutching his shoulders like your life depends on it.

Abruptly, your entire body seizes, thighs clenching around his waist so suddenly he grunts in surprise. Then you start to writhe in his tight grip, desperately trying to release some of the sensation flooding you but he just braces his arms around you and continues to move his hips in long languid strokes chasing his own release.

It isn’t until you whisper huskily in his ear, “Cum for me, Tooru,” doesn’t he really lose his mind. He abandons any and all thoughts and just drives his cock into you, harder and faster as your fingers delve into his damp hair and your tongue slips past his parted lips.

“Oh— _fuck_ ,” he moans, his grip tightening on you, hips stilling and cock twitching inside you making you whimper at how sensitive you are. Then his body relaxes, and he releases you, cradling your head in his hands while he showers you with soft kisses. Both you groan quietly as he pulls out of you, and _god_ —you feel like you’re fucking pulsing at the loss of him. Your legs feel weak and they’re trembling embarrassingly, both of your bodies covered in a thin sheen of sweat that Oikawa doesn’t seem to care one bit about.

He gathers you into his arms, pulls the sheets up and over the two of you, one of his hands skimming lovingly across your back and you feel so hopelessly at peace. He presses soft kisses on your forehead, humming happily to himself, and though he won’t admit it—he is a little terrified he’s going to wake up and all of this will have been a dream.

His dreamlike state is shattered when you mutter, “My roommate _definitely_ hates you now.”

“What! Why? I just gave you the fucking of your lifetime!”

That makes a smile spread across your lips, shimmying your body even closer to his, and whispering, “These walls are _very_ thin.”

“It’s a good thing I live alone then,” he says suggestively, moving to smother you in more kisses.


End file.
